A Victorian Drama

And then... nothing. 

Well, except for the distant sound of chaos—the usual. Footsteps, people shouting, maybe even some screaming for good measure. But, of course, it all felt distant, like she was floating underwater. If this were a movie, she'd have come to with some witty one-liner, probably while firing a gun sideways. But no, she fainted again. Classic.

When she finally woke up (again, because she was apparently auditioning for the lead in a Victorian fainting drama), she realized she was being lifted onto something hard. Great. Just what she needed after fighting tooth and nail with some mutant monsters—a stretcher. Super glamorous.

The rhythmic thump-thump of helicopter blades tried its best to lull her back to sleep. But no, she was determined to be awake this time. Well, mostly awake. Voices floated around her, like a swarm of bees, buzzing but completely unintelligible. Something about "death," "beasts," "samples," and "blood." You know, just your typical Monday. 

Oh, and they were talking about video footage. "The fight was captured," someone said, like that was supposed to be impressive. Top floors, sure, but—surprise, surprise—nothing from the basement. Of course not. Why would there be footage of the part where she almost died in the most grotesque way possible? Byte's technology failed, someone else said, in a voice that implied this was as shocking as discovering the sun rises in the east. Well, no kidding it failed! Byte had gone radio silent at the exact moment she needed him. Just perfect.

Now came the real kicker. They couldn't figure out why nothing worked down there. The maps were useless, the tech was dead, and the basement might as well have been a black hole. Oh, right, and the basement wasn't even on the schematics. 

Before she drifted off again, she caught snatches of conversation from the agents nearby. 

"Did you see the footage? Top floors are a complete mess. And those bodies… what were those things?"

"Beats me. What about the basement, though? No footage?"

"Nothing. Blank. Byte's tech went dead as soon as she went down there."

"Great. And what about that owner—uh, Lord Whateveryourface? He's pissed, apparently. Says his castle's destroyed."

"Yeah, well, when you house a bunch of monsters in your basement, I think property damage is the least of your worries."

"Tell him that. He's threatening to sue."

This was the part where, in a just world, someone would've shown up to explain it all, pat her on the back, and give her a medal. But no, what did they care about? The owner of Cawel Castle. Yep. Mr. Fancy Pants was apparently furious and threatening retaliation. Over what, she had no clue. But it sounded important. Important enough that the higher-ups cared more about his hurt feelings than the fact that a bunch of monsters had almost turned her into a midnight snack. Because that's where priorities lie, obviously.

Her mind drifted to their conversation again.

"Sue? For what? Emotional distress? 'Sorry, your lordship, we couldn't save your creepy monster pets. Here's a bouquet of flowers.' Mr. B's gonna deal with him. He's good at calming these people down."

"Mr. B can calm down a bomb with that poker face of his."

The last thing she heard was someone snickering about "Mr. B's retirement being a myth" before she faded back into the dark, her final conscious thought being a sarcastic:

Ah, Mr. B. The man, the myth, the legend. Or, more accurately, the grizzled old man who looked like a retired secret agent. You couldn't miss him if you tried. Always in that long black coat, leaning on a cane like he was in the middle of some personal film noir. Oh, and that eye patch. Because, of course, the man had an eye patch. He'd probably wear two if it made him look any cooler. Mr. B, the guy who sent them on this wonderfully disastrous mission in the first place. Thanks for that, bud.

Let's hope Mr. B can fix a severed arm and a missing map while he's at it, she thought.

The next wave of unconsciousness hit her like a ton of bricks. She felt the rumble of the helicopter as it landed—vaguely. They moved her again, and for a second, she thought she was back on that godforsaken ship. Nope, they were taking her from the chopper to… wait, was that small aircrafts? Well, this just kept getting better.

Next, she woke up (again, because that was her new hobby now), submerged in some sort of healing tank. Pipes snaked out of her mouth, her arms… oh, and speaking of arms. Wait—my arm? 

Her pulse spiked, but her body didn't seem to care.

Too drugged to do anything remotely useful, she tried to look down-easier said than done when the world was swaying like a bad dream. Her vision was a hazy mess, her brain clearly on vacation, but she could just make out her hand—her hand-still attached right where it was supposed to be.

Hold up. Wasn't that thing ripped clean off? She squinted, trying to reconcile the memory of her arm being casually severed with the sight of it now, intact and, well... fine. Reattached. They had reattached it.

Well, wasn't that just... convenient?

Part of her wanted to be impressed. Like, sure, magic science arm reattachment was cool and all, but also... what the actual hell? She was starting to get the distinct feeling that she'd missed some major plot points while she was out.

And, because life was a cruel comedian, the memories of that basement came rushing back like an unwelcome highlight reel. The black monster. The searing pain. The endless stream of blood-so much blood. Her mind replayed the horror in crystal-clear HD, and her body remembered, too, every inch of her tensing at the phantom pain.

She could feel herself slipping again, the drugs— whatever cocktail they'd given her-pulling her back down, heavy and unrelenting. It was like trying to swim through syrup, her consciousness dragged under despite her best efforts. Not that her "best efforts" were much to brag about, considering her limbs were about as useful as overcooked noodles.

Of course, this couldn't just be a straightforward nightmare. No, that would be too easy. Instead, here she was, barely holding onto reality, with her miraculously reattached arm and her brain doing somersaults, all while the drug-induced fog thickened.

Her last coherent thought before she drifted away again was simple and terrifying:

What the hell happened down there?